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Chapter IV
The Pavlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from
Braunau. The squadron in which Nicholas Rostov served
as a cadet was quartered in the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were assigned to
cavalry-captain Denisov, the squadron commander, known
throughout the whole cavalry division as Vaska Denisov.
Cadet Rostov, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in
Poland, had lived with the squadron commander.
On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news of Mack’s defeat, the camp life of the
officers of this squadron was proceeding as usual. Denisov,
who had been losing at cards all night, had not yet come
home when Rostov rode back early in the morning from
a foraging expedition. Rostov in his cadet uniform, with a
jerk to his horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over
the saddle with a supple youthful movement, stood for a
moment in the stirrup as if loathe to part from his horse,
and at last sprang down and called to his orderly.
‘Ah, Bondarenko, dear friend!’ said he to the hussar who
rushed up headlong to the horse. ‘Walk him up and down,
my dear fellow,’ he continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted young people show to everyone
when they are happy.
‘Yes, your excellency,’ answered the Ukrainian gaily,
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tossing his head.
‘Mind, walk him up and down well!’
Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarenko had already thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle
over the horse’s head. It was evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that it paid to serve him. Rostov patted
the horse’s neck and then his flank, and lingered for a moment.
‘Splendid! What a horse he will be!’ he thought with a
smile, and holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran
up the steps of the porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat
and a pointed cap, pitchfork in hand, was clearing manure
from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face immediately
brightened on seeing Rostov. ‘Schon gut Morgen! Schon gut
Morgen!’* he said winking with a merry smile, evidently
pleased to greet the young man.
”A very good morning! A very good morning!’ ‘Schon fleissig?’ said Rostov with the same gay brotherly
smile which did not leave his eager face. ‘Hoch Oestreicher!
Hoch Russen! Kaiser Alexander hoch!’*[2] said he, quoting
words often repeated by the German landlord.
*”Busy already?’
[2] ‘Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah for Emperor Alexander!’ The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and waving it above his head cried: ‘Und die ganze Welt hoch!’
*”And hurrah for the whole world!’
Rostov waved his cap above his head like the German
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and ctied laughing, ‘Und vivat die ganze Welt!’ Though
neither the German cleaning his cowshed nor Rostov back
with his platoon from foraging for hay had any reason for
rejoicing, they looked at each other with joyful delight and
brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual
affection, and parted smiling, the German returning to his
cowshed and Rostov going to the cottage he occupied with
Denisov.
‘What about your master?’ he asked Lavrushka, Denisov’s orderly, whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.
‘Hasn’t been in since the evening. Must have been losing,’
answered Lavrushka. ‘I know by now, if he wins he comes
back early to brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it
means he’s lost and will come back in a rage. Will you have
coffee?’
‘Yes, bring some.’
Ten minutes later Lavrushka brought the coffee. ‘He’s
coming!’ said he. ‘Now for trouble!’ Rostov looked out of
the window and saw Denisov coming home. Denisov was a
small man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and black
tousled mustache and hair. He wore an unfastened cloak,
wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled
shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch
gloomily, hanging his head.
‘Lavwuska!’ he shouted loudly and angrily, ‘take it off,
blockhead!’
‘Well, I am taking it off,’ replied Lavrushka’s voice.
‘Ah, you’re up already,’ said Denisov, entering the room.
‘Long ago,’ answered Rostov, ‘I have already been for the
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hay, and have seen Fraulein Mathilde.’
‘Weally! And I’ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday
like a damned fool!’ cried Denisov, not pronouncing his r’s.
‘Such ill luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and
went on. Hullo there! Tea!’
Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his
short strong teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both
hands to ruffle up his thick tangled black hair.
‘And what devil made me go to that wat?’ (an officer nicknamed ‘the rat’) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole
face with both hands. ‘Just fancy, he didn’t let me win a single cahd, not one cahd.’
He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped
it in his fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks
fly, while he continued to shout.
‘He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one
doubles it; gives the singles and snatches the doubles!’
He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and
threw it away. Then he remained silent for a while, and all
at once looked cheerfully with his glittering, black eyes at
Rostov.
‘If at least we had some women here; but there’s nothing foh one to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting
soon. Hullo, who’s there?’ he said, turning to the door as he
heard a tread of heavy boots and the clinking of spurs that
came to a stop, and a respectful cough.
‘The squadron quartermaster!’ said Lavrushka.
Denisov’s face puckered still more.
‘Wetched!’ he muttered, throwing down a purse with
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some gold in it. ‘Wostov, deah fellow, just see how much
there is left and shove the purse undah the pillow,’ he said,
and went out to the quartermaster.
Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the
old and new coins in separate piles, began counting them.
‘Ah! Telyanin! How d’ye do? They plucked me last night,’
came Denisov’s voice from the next room.
‘Where? At Bykov’s, at the rat’s… I knew it,’ replied a piping voice, and Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer of the
same squadron, entered the room.
Rostov thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the
damp little hand which was offered him. Telyanin for some
reason had been transferred from the Guards just before
this campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment but
was not liked; Rostov especially detested him and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the
man.
‘Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?’ he
asked. (Rook was a young horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov.)
The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to
straight in the face; his eyes continually wandered from one
object to another.
‘I saw you riding this morning…’ he added.
‘Oh, he’s all right, a good horse,’ answered Rostov, though
the horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was
not worth half that sum. ‘He’s begun to go a little lame on
the left foreleg,’ he added.
‘The hoof’s cracked! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what to
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do and show you what kind of rivet to use.’
‘Yes, please do,’ said Rostov.
‘I’ll show you, I’ll show you! It’s not a secret. And it’s a
horse you’ll thank me for.’
‘Then I’ll have it brought round,’ said Rostov wishing to
avoid Telyanin, and he went out to give the order.
In the passage Denisov, with a pipe, was squatting on
the threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face
and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room
where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned and gave a shudder
of disgust.
‘Ugh! I don’t like that fellow‘‘ he said, regardless of the
quartermaster’s presence.
Rostov shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: ‘Nor
do I, but what’s one to do?’ and, having given his order, he
returned to Telyanin.
Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which
Rostov had left him, rubbing his small white hands.
‘Well there certainly are disgusting people,’ thought Rostov as he entered.
‘Have you told them to bring the horse?’ asked Telyanin,
getting up and looking carelessly about him.
‘I have.’
‘Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denisov
about yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denisov?’
‘Not yet. But where are you off to?’
‘I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,’ said
Telyanin.
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They went through the porch and into the stable. The
lieutenant explained how to rivet the hoof and went away
to his own quarters.
When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and
a sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting there scratching
with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in Rostov’s face and said: ‘I am witing to her.’
He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand
and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what
he wanted to write, told Rostov the contents of his letter.
‘You see, my fwiend,’ he said, ‘we sleep when we don’t
love. We are childwen of the dust… but one falls in love and
one is a God, one is pua’ as on the first day of cweation…
Who’s that now? Send him to the devil, I’m busy!’ he shouted
to Lavrushka, who went up to him not in the least abashed.
‘Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It’s the
quartermaster for the money.’
Denisov frowned and was about to shout some reply but
stopped.
‘Wetched business,’ he muttered to himself. ‘How much
is left in the puhse?’ he asked, turning to Rostov.
‘Seven new and three old imperials.’
‘Oh, it’s wetched! Well, what are you standing there
for, you sca’cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh,’ he shouted to
Lavrushka.
‘Please, Denisov, let me lend you some: I have some, you
know,’ said Rostov, blushing.
‘Don’t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don’t,’
growled Denisov.
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‘But if you won’t accept money from me like a comrade,
you will offend me. Really I have some,’ Rostov repeated.
‘No, I tell you.’
And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under
